


The Wheel

by Cwitch



Category: Oz (TV)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Canon-Typical Violence, Drug Addiction, Explicit Language, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-16
Updated: 2010-12-16
Packaged: 2017-10-13 17:00:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/139568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cwitch/pseuds/Cwitch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Toby thinks too much.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Wheel

**Author's Note:**

> Author's Notes: Some time season 4, the Pod of Love is occupied. I haven't written/posted any fic since 2002. Gentle concrit encouraged.
> 
> Disclaimer: All characters used herein are the property of Fontana/Levinson and HBO. No copyright infringement intended. No profit shall me made; this is soley a work of the author's imagination.

_Fuck you! You're an asshole! A true, unadulterated batshit-crazy asshole!_

Beecher hurled himself to sitting, palms pressed against his eyes. Willing his head to shutthefuckup. It never did. Especially in the dark, or dim, the closest to dark it ever got in Em City. He craved the dark, true, blessed, passed-the-fuck-out dark he would feel after six martinis. Maybe seven. Always after eight.

_Dipshit! Stop it. Stop it. STOP IT!!!_

Toby thought his head just might explode – wished it would. Sometimes he longed to see his brains blow all over the glass walls with a splattery thud, ooze down in a bright red cascade like Adebisi's had done. That bastard did everything in a big way. Can't. Won't. Can't. No!! If only the dark were silent. Gorgeous, blissful silence. Heroin nod silence, liquid voices running in and out of his veins on a wave of Idon'tgiveafuck. Beecher wanted that free-floating buoyancy that silenced his head and numbed his heart, muffled his rage and dulled his nerves.

_God damn it! It's not gonna stop! Never going to stop! Stop. Stop! Please?!? How could he stop it?_

Ingrained, Pavlovian, fucking praggish. Oh yeah, he was and always would be a prag, but not to Vern – to and for himself. He pimped and ho'ed his body, his brain, his being out long before the slamming gates of Oz. Sensation, adrenalin, power on the hoof for Tobias Beecher. Nothing the less than the best rush money could buy, and he didn't give a good god damn how he got it. Never did. Certainly didn't now.

_I'll kill first! Die first! Not FUCKING AGAIN!_

Only when his own hiss caused a startled jump did he realize how far he had dug his nails into his knees, hugging himself hard enough to crack ribs. It didn't hurt. God how he wished it hurt. Wished it burnt like a heroin bump, like a shot of cheap scotch, like a rough fuck. Wished he could burn clean and still, ashes floating on the wind – light, elemental.

_What the fuck is the use? I'm trapped. Fucking rat. Fucking trapped no matter what. Run on that big old wheel, asshole!_

Toby stretched, running his trembling hands down his bare legs and sighed. He grabbed his feet and pulled – smiling at the burn down the back of his thighs and ache in his shins. They always ached. He'd gotten used to it. Flexing his feet and grabbing tightly, he sat straighter, feeling his forearms crack and tremble. They ached, too. Always.

_Damn it! What the fuck … Aaahh! No! Please! Fuck this. It's no good. NO GOOD!_

As quietly as he could, Toby turned, his legs sliding over the edge of his bunk. He landed with the quietest slap of bare feet on the floor. Crouching, jaw clenched, he looked into the bottom bunk's cave-like space. He heard a long, gentle sigh. Chris reached for him, warm, dry hand running up his arm, shoulder, cupping his face and neck. “Baby, do you have to do that to yourself every night?” Toby shuddered.

_Trapped!_


End file.
